


Cold

by LeapAngstily



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-05
Updated: 2013-02-05
Packaged: 2017-11-28 07:31:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/671879
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeapAngstily/pseuds/LeapAngstily
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the aftermath of the EURO 2012 final, Riccardo wonders if it would be easier to be someone else instead.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cold

Getting substituted in the middle of an important match is never satisfying, but this time it is practically excruciating. Riccardo thinks he still could have continued, could have done something  _more_  for the Azzurri.  
  
But Cesare knows his game, all his strengths and weaknesses, perhaps even better than Riccardo himself. After all, the coach has seen him at his best and at his worst, first five years in Fiorentina and then two in the national team. So Riccardo walks off the pitch without a word of complaint, high-fiving Thiago on the way. It is up to his teammates now.  
  
Barely three minutes into the substitution and Thiago is carried off the pitch. Everything goes from bad to worse after that, and Riccardo can do nothing but watch the carnage that takes place on the field. It is frustrating, it is  _humiliating_ , and he is not even there to experience it first-hand.  
  
Yet, he cannot make himself look away. No matter how hard it is, this is their loss to bear.  
  
When the whistle indicates the end of the match, there are no  _what if_ s floating in the air – the Spanish were the better team tonight, and there is nothing Riccardo or any other Italian could have done to change it.  
  
That does not mean they cannot give in to the feelings of disappointment, sadness, or anger (at themselves, at their bad luck, at others). They all came here to win today.  
  
Riccardo wishes he could express his own feelings more openly. How easy it would be to be like Bonucci, who lets it all out right there on the field, crying out all the bad feelings without paying attention to his surroundings?  
  
Cesare tells Riccardo he did well, that there was nothing he could have done to change the result, patting him on the cheeks in a fatherly fashion. Riccardo wants to ask him why he could not play until the end, then, if he did so well. But that would be the frustration speaking.  
  
He wonders how it would feel to throw a temper tantrum à la Balotelli, to just march off to the dressing rooms banging the doors closed behind him. To vent all his anger at his teammates, at the opponents, at practically everything he encounters in the aftermath of the game.  
  
Then again, maybe he would like to be like Gigi Buffon: the captain must be the most disappointed of them all, and yet he manages to keep his cool all through the medal ceremony. He stays classy even when he is yelling at Mario to grow up and look into the mirror before he starts flinging accusations at anyone else.  
  
 _Coldness, both on and off the pitch._    
  
That is what he told the reporters when they asked him about his German inheritance. Only now does he realize that the half-jokingly made remark holds an unquestionable truth. He really is cold: unable to open himself to the others; unable to process the negative emotions filling up every corner of his mind; unable to reach out to anyone; unable to be like Bonucci, like Balotelli, like Buffon, or anyone else.  
  
He is just Riccardo, and at the moment the thought is all but comforting.  
  
He is still sitting in a corner of the dressing room, only half-dressed, when the rest of the team starts rippling out and into the bus that is waiting to take them back to the hotel.  
  
Riccardo does not notice that Buffon has stayed behind before the captain is suddenly standing right in front of him.  
  
“It’s okay to be disappointed, you know,” the older man tells him softly. His voice is hoarse, probably from all the shouting he did during the match (and right after it). Yet he still manages to sound reassuring and  _strong_.  
  
“It’s okay to feel lost, too,” the captain continues, like he knows exactly what Riccardo is going through. Maybe he does – maybe 15 years in the national team gives him the kind of insight that Riccardo cannot even begin to understand.  
  
The goalkeeper pulls Riccardo up from his seat and into an impromptu hug, pressing their foreheads together, and utters reassurances to the younger man in his deep, sure voice:  
  
“You did well out there. You couldn’t have done anything more. Everyone gets substituted sometimes, and it makes their effort no less important.”  
  
They are all words Riccardo has heard before, words he has been telling  _himself_  ever since the match concluded – but it all sounds more convincing from the experienced goalkeeper’s lips, like the words become more true when spoken in that breathy, raspy voice that is barely louder than a whisper now.  
  
Riccardo usually prefers to keep other people at arm’s length – not an easy feat when the social norm of goal-celebration includes hugging and players throwing themselves all over each other, but he still tries.  
  
But being hugged by the goalkeeper is oddly comforting. It is not quite fatherly like Cesare’s actions, but it is not exactly a friendly pat on the back, either. To his surprise, Riccardo finds himself relaxing in Gigi’s arms, tentatively bringing his own arms up to return the hug.  
  
They stay like that for a while; the captain is stroking Riccardo’s hair absent-mindedly, not making any attempt to move away before he is sure that the younger man is ready to let go.  
  
Finally, after what seems like an eternity to the midfielder, Gigi moves to press a firm kiss on his temple before releasing his hold. Riccardo feels almost cold without the older man’s body pressed against his.  
  
“Get dressed and collect your stuff. Wouldn’t want the bus to leave without us,” Buffon tells him with an inkling of a smile playing on his lips, and Riccardo is surprised how easy it is to return the expression.  
  
When they make their way to the bus, the captain throws an arm around his shoulders and leans in to speak right next to his ear:  
  
“You’ll do great in Milan. I look forward to facing you next season, kiddo.”  
  
Riccardo does not even try to argue the slight at his age (he is not  _that_  young). Instead, the words fill him with warmth and determination – he knows he will do everything in his power exceed all his captain’s expectations.  
  
Suddenly, the new season cannot start soon enough.


End file.
